


Moth's Wings

by TerraTheTerror



Series: Moth's Wings Universe [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Multi, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Slow Burn, Trans!Fenris, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraTheTerror/pseuds/TerraTheTerror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, Luta woke Fenris and told him that there was a monster hiding in the bushes behind their camp. Most fathers would take their daughter and run.</p><p>Fenris said, "Prepare yourself, child. No monster goes down without a fight."</p><p>Now, she watches Corypheus rise again and again and <i>why</i> is her father always right about the worst things?</p><p>----</p><p>In which Fenris gave birth to a little girl at Danarius' bidding, and she grows up to be Tevinter's Greatest Pain in the Ass.</p><p>Alternatively speaking, she becomes the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moth's Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You come beating like moth's wings_   
>  _Spastic and violently_   
>  _Whipping me into a storm_   
>  _Shaking me down to the core_
> 
> The explosion at the conclave leaves only one survivor.
> 
> Solas thinks she's an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR UPDATE 5/28/16  
> So, everybody probably thinks this is abandoned. It is definitely not. I realized something while writing the second chapter that drastically changes Luta's demeanor as a child, and switching between present and past tense is a pain in the ass. Also, this fic is going to be much darker than I originally planned.  
> 
> 
> For these reasons, I'm rewriting it. It will not be titled Moth's Wing, and will not alternate between Inquisition and DA2. Instead, the first part will take place in Kirkwall, the second part in Inquisition.  
> 
> 
> The series will be titled "As a Moth Sees Light" and the first part will be "The Least of His Children." Both titles are from the Chant of Light. I'm definitely writing, but the chapters are much longer than the chapters I originally wrote, so it is taking a long time. But I'm definitely doing it!! I even made a title banner for "The Least of His Children." The first chapter is at 10k words right now, and should be out within a week.  
> 
> 
> Also, I could really use a beta. A huge reason this takes me so long is that I doubt myself and my writing and constantly erase half of what I write, change it, change it back, etc. Having a second opinion would be wonderful!!! If there are any volunteers, please leave a comment!

The Seeker—Cassandra, she insists, but Solas hesitates to treat any type of Templar so casually—doesn’t believe him. Funny, since he actually is telling the truth this time.

_“Lyrium?”_ The Seeker shakes her head. “That’s impossible. Nobody has been feeding the prisoner lyrium. Unless you have something to confess, Solas.”

“She did not ingest it.”

“Then how can it be—”

“It is already a part of her,” Solas explains.

Her being the elven prisoner with a glowing, scarred hand. Marked by his magic. She lies before them, curled into a ball on the dungeon floor, her face hidden by a curtain of black hair. The stone beneath her must be freezing, but Solas does not try to keep her from the chill. It may relieve her high fever.

The mark pulses, and the prisoner groans as she cradles the hand to her chest. Solas hears her teeth gritting together in her sleep, a subconscious outlet for the pain that the magic causes her. The magic Solas that already knows quite intimately. But the lyrium…

Something tugs at the back of his mind. There is a faint memory there, an echo from ages past. He tries to grasp it. If only he could remember where he has seen this…

“I find it hard to believe as well. This is something unheard of—”

“—as far as you know.”

Solas and the Seeker both whip around to see Sister Nightingale (or Leliana, as Solas has come to know her) closing the cell door behind her and carrying a steaming bucket.

The smirk on her face is a troubling sight to behold.

“What do you mean, ‘as far as we know’?” The Seeker narrows her eyes at Leliana. “What do _you_ know?”

“Nothing more than you, Cassandra,” Leliana says. She moves silently to the prisoner’s side and kneels. The bucket sloshes—filled with hot water, Solas can now see—as Leliana rests it besides the prisoner’s head. “But I have my suspicions. Let us see if I am wrong.”

Leliana gently pulls the prisoner’s hair loose from its tie and lets it spill out in a halo around her. Careful hands take hold of a lock and tip it into the steaming water…

…and the water turns dark.

The black in the prisoner’s hair spreads out in inky blotches until the strands in Leliana’s hand are a stark white. Dyed? Solas had never noticed, too concentrated on the mark and its effects on her health to grant attention to anything else, but now it is impossible to ignore the strange oily sheen to the prisoner’s hair, the way the skin on the back of her neck seems stained with ink. Is that what she had done? Dipped her head back into ink, then let it dry?

The prisoner’s hair, turning entirely white as Leliana washes away the rest of the dye, is practically a beacon; even quiet and hidden in shadow, she would have been noticed. A criminal, then, or a spy of some sort?

A crack breaks Solas from his thoughts. The Seeker has—unflinching—slammed her fist into the cell’s stone wall. It’s an old structure; dust and rocks shake loose at the impact and crumble to the ground. Solas eyes the debris wearily.

“Luta,” the Seeker growls.

“Yes,” Leliana says.

Solas frowns, completely lost, and asks, “Who is Luta?”

The Seeker ignores Solas. Her shouting drowns out his question, and Solas sighs in defeat. Best to wait her tantrum out. Lowering himself to the ground across from Leliana, he listens to the two women while he examines the prisoner once again.

“Varric must have been in contact!”

Leliana says, “Unless she isn’t here for Varric.”

“Why else would she—”

The Seeker glances at the prisoner’s glowing hand and stops mid-sentence.

“To kill Justinia,” Leliana whispers.

“But… why would she…?”

“Because of Hawke.” Leliana stands and moves away from the prisoner. A wise decision. Her anger seems to enhance her deadly inclinations and they cannot afford to lose the prisoner. “Justinia considered making an Exalted March on Kirkwall and for a time we believed Hawke was largely responsible for the disaster at the Chantry, which left Hawke in a dangerous position. Even if Luta’s love for Hawke is weak, and I don’t believe it is, Fenris remains his lover. And for Fenris…”

“She would do anything,” the Seeker says. “Even destroy the world’s last chance at peace.”

Leliana nods. The cell falls silent, save for the prisoner’s heavy breathing.

“Who is Luta?” Solas asks again.

He never could leave well enough alone. The centuries have not changed that.

Cassandra huffs and crosses her arms, jerking her head towards the prisoner. “ _That_ is Luta.”

Solas rolls his eyes. Like he hadn’t figured that out minutes ago. Either the Seeker thinks him a fool or she’s in a very abrupt mood. Or both. Probably both.

“Read Varric’s book and you’ll find out,” Leliana says.

“Which one?” He’d rather not read any of them, to be honest.

“The only one truly worth mentioning, of course. _The Tale of the Champion_.”

Of course. The book that the Seeker is constantly flipping through. Solas has not known her and Varric for long, but from what he has seen the Seeker spends every possible moment needling the dwarf for details on “The Champion,” to the point where the dwarf seems ready to cut out his own tongue to avoid speaking to her.

“It does not matter who she is,” the Seeker hisses. “As soon as the Breach is sealed, the Chantry shall judge her crimes. She will die for what she has done. I will ensure it.”

“If she lives long enough to do either,” Solas reminds her.

The Seeker scowls at him. “Just let us know if she wakes up. Leliana, I will find Varric and see if he knows anything about this.”

With one last glare at the prisoner—Luta, apparently—the Seeker kicks the cell door open and stomps away.

Leliana sighs. _“Find Varric._ Cassandra’s way of saying ‘strangle him to death.’ I should go stop her.”

Solas has turned his gaze to the prisoner once more. Only the clinking of Leliana’s chainmail tells him of her departure. Solas breathes deeply, wants to meditate in the solitude and to search for answers…

But it is not solitude. The prisoner suddenly whimpers in her sleep as the mark glows especially bright before dimming down again, effectively reminding Solas of her presence. At first such noises had been common. In fact, the girl used to speak in her sleep, whispering and muttering words that Solas did not understand, save for one...

_Grey..._

Solas shakes his head to clear his thoughts. The prisoner—Luta, Solas reminds himself—is weak now, too weak to utter a single word. Solas takes a wet cloth from a tray beside them and wipes the sweat from her furrowed brow.

Not just weak. Dying.

Solas wishes that the guilt inside of him would die as well. Instead it grows, singing in his mind the tale of the fallen elven god that freely gave a _magister_ the key to his power. Solas cannot help but wonder if every endeavor he undertakes, however well-intentioned, is destined to end in tragedy.

(and what madness is this that even the trickster Dread Wolf cannot play puppeteer without setting the world ablaze?)

* * *

 

Three hours later, Varric Tethras is still alive.

Solas would know, as he and the dwarf fight demons back-to-back. The man’s not even bruised. So the Seeker hasn’t found him yet. That explains her foul mood when she returned to the cell and snapped at Solas to get moving, that a mage was needed on the battlefield. Solas was reluctant to leave the prisoner, but he was far more reluctant to deny the Seeker.

So he joined the fray outside of Haven. The Seeker had been right, of course. The Inquisition soldiers desperately need more mages, particularly healers, and while Solas is not exceptionally skilled in the healing arts, his barriers can protect soldiers from further damage. It will have to suffice.

And in the midst of casting barrier after barrier, he stumbled upon Varric. Both were pleasantly surprised to find a familiar face among the chaos.

Now they are surrounded on all sides by demons. Every time one falls, the rift summons another. It is now unlikely that the Seeker will meet Varric or Solas ever again as more and more demons pour from the sky, taking people’s lives with every passing second. At least there’s that.

Many blame the prisoner for the demons; she was the first to walk from the Fade, and the horde followed after. The Inquisition soldiers and Chantry sisters whisper prayers against her demon army. How cruel of her, to take the Divine’s life and then ruin the world.

Solas knows the truth.

And now he knows a new truth: that after everything he has done, everything he has created and ruined, everyone he has fought against… his own magic will be the death of him.

(justice to arrogant Elgarn’an, to Mythal fate’s greatest joke, Mythal who matched Solas eye-to-eye and heart-to heart who deserved _better_ )

Apparently, Varric agrees. He shouts over a terror’s shriek, “You know, if I ever meet the person who made this mess, I’ll make them clean it up with their own sorry ass!”

“You mean,” Solas smirks at the irony as he freezes a rage demon in place, “that you’ll wipe the floor with them?”

Varric’s laugh is booming and oddly comforting. At the end of the world, Solas thinks there are worse people to fight with. He tells Varric this, and the dwarf beams back at him as a bolt from his crossbow shatters the still frozen demon.

“You’re not too bad either, Chuckles!”

It takes another three dozen vanquished shades for Solas to realize that Varric is no saner than the Seeker.

“Look,” Varric says as a volley of bolts from Bianca—of course the dwarf is mad enough to name his crossbow—takes care of several wraiths at once, “I’m just saying, killing these things was exciting at first, but now it’s getting boring. We should spice things up a little, that’s all!”

“You want to play a _game_ while we—”

“Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Chuckles!”

Solas is _not_ a stick-in-the-mud. His pranks were literally the stuff of legends, and he opens his mouth to tell Varric as much when an arrow suddenly pierces through three lesser shades at once.

Varric whistles appreciatively. “Nice one, Nightingale!”

"Thank you, Varric.” Leliana nods at the dwarf, but it is in front of Solas that she stops. “The prisoner has awoken.”

He was certain that she had been dying when Solas left, slipping further into darkness with every passing second. How did she…?

Leliana has brought several scouts with her. The Inquisition agents pick up the fight against the demons while the Sister and Solas speak.

“That’s…quite remarkable,” Solas says.

“Your theory about her ability to close the Breach,” Leliana continues, “is what everything is banking on. Cassandra is guiding her here as we speak. When she arrives, show her what to do.”

“Hey, who is this prisoner anyway?” Varric inquires. “You know how much I enjoy good gossip.”

Leliana doesn’t even glance in his direction. She simply turns away and heads towards the forward camp, taking the agents with her.

Solas grits his teeth and engages in battle once more, shouting to Varric over the roar of a demon, “I think you might know her!”

Somewhere more bolts from Bianca are released. They rip through the air and into the flesh of a nearby lesser shade.

“Yeah?” Varric’s voice rings out over the ruckus of battle. The sheer loudness of dwarves never ceases to amaze Solas. “Who is she? If she wears a bandana and likes to smother you with her tits, then I admit no knowledge of her or whatever misdeeds she committed.”

“What?” Solas crinkles his nose, his mind filled with a bizarre image of a pair of breasts suffocating him with a bandana. “No! Why would—no, nevermind! I don’t want to know!”

Varric laughs.

“The Seeker said her name is Luta,” Solas shouts. “She has white hair and—”

He turns to face another enemy and spies Varric across the battlefield. Bianca is pointed at the ground, useless against the shade approaching him.

“Varric!”

The dwarf does nothing. Just stares at Solas with wide eyes and an ill look on his face. “Luta?” he croaks out. “Luta is here? She’s the _prisoner?”_

And then the shade is upon him. Varric falls, blood spattering the rocks below him as the shade sinks its claws into the dwarf’s shoulder. Varric doesn’t scream, only grunts in pain as he tries to aim Bianca.

Solas uses the last reserves of his magic to step through the Fade. He moves past the shade, stopping just after Varric so that he can yank him away and push him back to safety behind a tumbling stone wall, out of the shade’s reach. Then Solas sways, suddenly exhausted. The shade tries to target him now, but an Inquisition soldier bellows something and it turns away, leaving Solas alone.

The exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. It sinks into his bones, and he thinks bitterly of the way magic used to require no effort at all, no damned lyrium potions, as simple and easy as breathing and a thousand times more exhilarating.

He aches with the exhaustion and the loss.

Solas only wallows in his self-pity for a few heartbeats, but in battle that is all it takes. (Why can’t he remember not to be so callous with his life? Solas is not immortal anymore.) A rage demon takes advantage of his distraction and suddenly rises from the earth in front of him. A swipe of its claw—

Heat spirals up his right arm, and Solas hisses at the pain.

The burn overwhelms his senses and tears cloud his vision, but he manages to see the demon as it readies for another attack. Freeze. He needs to freeze it. Solas ignores the burn as he goes to swing his staff—

—and realizes that in the haze of pain, he had opened his hand. His staff now lies at his feet. Solas falls to his knees quickly and reaches for it.

The demon is faster.

It rips a fiery claw across Solas’ back and he _screams_ as his flesh tears apart and melts together. It hurts to breathe now. There are no elfroot potions, nothing to heal him unless he has his damned staff.

But he doesn’t get the chance to grab it. The rage demon shifts forward and slithers over his staff, and Solas is ruined.

The demon towers over him. Its flames lick at his skin as stray embers singe his tunic, and Varric shouts his name as the demon goes for the final strike. Solas shrinks away, but it bears down on him anyway and closes in—

A dagger suddenly strikes the demon in the chest. It rears back with a pained cry, and Solas has his opening. He quickly rolls to the right, stands and stumbles around the wounded demon until he finds his staff.

As soon as he has it in his hand again, Solas clenches his fist around it and breathes deeply. He turns around to kill the rage demon.

But the Seeker is there and already taking care of it, skewering the demon with her longsword. It dissipates into nothing after one final roar.

Solas sighs out of pure relief and starts to thank the Seeker, but the words die in his throat as soon as he notices her companion. White hair, a green glow—

He moves on instinct.

“Quickly!” Solas shouts. He grabs the prisoner’s marked hand and thrusts it towards the rift. “Before more come through!”

“What—“

The mark glows and pulses, and in a flash of bright light the rift closes and disappears.

Nearby soldiers start to scatter and cheer, ecstatic to see an end to the demons. Solas smiles, relieved as well until the prisoner wrenches her hand from him—

—and punches him in the face.

Something cracks and blood gushes from his nose, the sharp tang of iron hitting his tongue as some drips into his mouth. Disgusted, Solas tries to staunch the flow with his free hand. It doesn’t work well, only warps his voice further as he garbles, “What was that for!?”

The prisoner—Luta ignores him and raises her fist again.

“Stop!”

The Seeker pulls the prisoner away from him, and at the same exact moment Solas counterattacks with a slam of his staff into the earth. A pulse of energy bursts from his mind.

It hits the Seeker instead of Luta. The force knocks her to the ground, and she falls with a grunt. Solas cringes.

Varric laughs.

“Nice one, Chuckles!”

Solas scowls at the dwarf. “I didn’t mean to—”

_“Varric!?”_

“Wha—Doughnut!”

Luta hurtles herself at Varric. At first, Solas thinks she means to kill him and he moves to swing his staff again, but she doesn’t lift slim hands around his throat or slip a knife in his ribs.

Instead, she gathers Varric in her arms and lifts him clear off the ground.

Solas blinks.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second!” Varric cries out. She drops him back down, and Varric brushes his coat free of dust before beaming up at her.

“Holy shit! What are you doing here, kid!? How’d you manage to get wrangled up in this shit?”

“Saving you.” Luta jerks her head towards the Seeker, who is now standing and glaring ferociously at all of them.

“Saving me?” Varric bats his eyes at her. “Sweet, but unnecessary.”

The prisoner crosses her arms over her chest and taps a foot. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d been kidnapped. I didn’t mean to interrupt your _romantic getaway_.”

“Excuse me,” Solas interrupts as he finally picks up his staff and casts a healing spell, “but I believe your _friend_ owes me an apology, Master Tethras.”

“For what?”

“For punching me in the face!”

“Oh,” Varric says. “Yeah, she does that sometimes.”

The prisoner glares at Solas and spits at him, “You touched me! Consider yourself lucky I didn’t slice off your—”

“Doughnut, trust me. Chuckles is definitely somebody you want as an _ally_ right now. Just apologize.”

“Fine,” she snaps. Then she turns to Solas with a very insincere bow and says, “ _Your welcome.”_

“That was no apology!”

The prisoner shrugs. “Language barriers. Miscommunication. You know how it is.”

Varric laughs. “You speak the common tongue, Doughnut! Also, that’s not how language barriers work.” He pats her elbow. “Just try to play nice, okay?”

The prisoner glares at him.

So does the Seeker.

“What would you know about playing nice, you lying little—”

“I didn’t lie!” Varric protests. “I just omitted certain details.”

“If she knew you were here then you must have been in contact with her!” The Seeker is spitting mad. Solas inches away from her. “I asked if you knew where she was and you said you did not, you said had not spoken to her in months and I believed you! You shit!”

“Oh my,” Luta mutters.

Varric shakes his head. “I’m telling you, I didn’t lie! I didn’t know where she was, I just knew how to get in touch with her. And exchanging letters technically isn’t speaking to each other.”

“I will kill you!”

Luta steps forward until she’s toe-to-toe with the Seeker.

“You go near him,” she hisses, “and I will _gut you.”_

“Aw,” Varric says.

“He still owes me money.”

“Oh. Thanks, Luta.”

“It’s true!” She turns to Varric. “You owe me money. I wrote down the amount somewhere…”

She starts to pat her coat, despite Varric’s protests about how unnecessary the details are. The shift in topic angers the Seeker, and she starts to shout about liars and mongrels and crushing dwarves under her boots. Solas looks up at the Breach, still spewing demons and tearing the world apart, then looks back at the three bickering in front of him. This must be how schoolteachers feel when they try to usher children back into the classroom after lunch.

Solas casts a basic healing spell on himself; never one for the healing arts, his burns and gashes do not change, but the spell manages to fix his nose, and he gingerly wipes the blood from his face. Then he makes his move, slamming his staff into the ground so that ice flakes around him. A cold wind blows over the others fighting, and all three stop and look to him.

“Enough!” Solas scolds them. “There is work to be done! You can all argue about this _when_ _the world is not ending!”_

Silence...

Varric breaks it with a whistle. “Damn, Chuckles. Didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Solas is right,” the Seeker says. Solas stares at her, too tired to hide his disbelief. “Sealing the Breach must be our highest priority.”

“Uh-huh.” Luta glares at Solas, then at the Seeker. “Good luck with that.”

Then she turns and starts to stomp away.

“You can’t just leave!”

“Why not? I got what I came for,” she nods at Varric, “and I don’t care to help anyone who _ties me up with rope_. Come on, Varric.”

Varric shakes his head. “No way. I’m staying here, Doughnut, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t run off before we fix this shit.”

“Are you joking!?”

“No! Look, this thing threatens all of us. There is no escaping it. Even if there was, I’d rather not have to face your dad’s wrath when he sees _that_.” Varric gestures at the mark.

Luta scowls at him, but Varric doesn’t budge. Finally she throws her hands into the air and growls, “Fine! I’ll help… But now you owe me even more money, okay?” Varric rolls his eyes. “A lot more. I want to buy myself a damn island when this over! And you,” Luta turns to the Seeker. “You mentioned a forward camp earlier?”

“I did.”

“Then lead the way,” Luta says.

The Seeker studies Luta with suspicion, one hand still on the hilt of her sword, while Varric smiles fondly at her.

Solas does not know how to look at the other elf. She remains a mystery to him.

* * *

 

He solves said mystery on the way to the forward camp.

She’s irritating. And an ass. She’s an irritating ass.

That’s it. That is all there is to it.

Mystery solved.

“So your name is Chuckles?”

“It’s _Solas.”_ This entire situation is ludicrous. This _world_ is ludicrous.

At least his wounds are gone. The Seeker had some elfroot potions and offered him a few after seeing the state of his back.

“Oh. Well, it could be worse.”

“Excuse me!?”

“Doughnut!” Varric shouts over him, “Time for some introductions and a subtle shift in conversation. Chuckles and Seeker, meet Doughnut. Or Luta, I guess. She’s a slaver-hunter extraordinaire and lyrium-addled delinquent.”

“Oh,” Solas drawls, “so your name isn’t Doughnut?”

Luta scowls at him.

“Doughnut, meet Chuckles, also known as Solas.” Varric reaches up, slaps his back jovially. Solas winces. His wounds are healed, but the skin is still new, sore and sensitive. “He’s an apostate and I’m pretty sure he was raised in the woods by wolves.” Solas has to bite back a laugh at that. “Try not to eat the poor guy alive.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Good.”

“I like to make sure they’re dead before I eat them,” Luta deadpans.

Varric laughs and shakes his head. “Well, that’s probably the best I’ll get from you. And this is the Seeker.”

“Cassandra. Seeker is my title,” she corrects him.

“Great,” Luta says. “Now we’re all best friends, but let’s wait until after this mess is over to hold hands and skip around on a flowery meadow.”

“I don’t do meadows. Too much dirt.”

“And there it is,” Luta mutters. “The least dwarven dwarf in the history of Thedas.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Varric.”

* * *

 

They seal one more rift at the camp’s gate. Well, Luta does. Before now, no one other than him has controlled this magic. The memory of magic stirs in Solas’ palms when Luta uses the mark. He does not think he will ever grow used to the empty cavern that his power once filled.

(filled? it flooded the sky when he wished it, the man called Dread Wolf for a reason, who split the world in two and now stands panting and tired from a battle that should have ended with a simple wave of his hand.)

The Seeker strides onto the bridge with the other three in tow.  Leliana awaits them as she promised, but she is not the only one.

“Chancellor Roderick,” the Seeker grumbles under her breath.

“Who?” Luta asks, but the Chancellor—an old human with both fear and anger in the lines of his face—spots them before the Seeker can answer.

“Ah,” he spits. “Here they come.”

Leliana steps forward and says, “You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is—”

“I know who she is,” The Chancellor glares furiously at Luta. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!”

Luta merely raises a brow. Seeker Pentaghast, on the other hand, responds with her typical level of ferocity.

“‘Order me?’ You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor,” Leliana reminds him, “as you well know.”

“Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter!”

Solas does not interrupt their spat. As an elf and an apostate, he is the last person they would listen to, save perhaps their prisoner.

And yet it is Luta who speaks up.

“I hate to interrupt,” she says, “but I’m sure everyone can survive without a Divine. On the other hand, a horde of demons falling from the sky might be a little bad for our health.”

Varric snickers. While her attitude is a bit childish, Solas approves of Luta’s priorities.

The Chancellor does not.

_“You_ brought this on us in the first place!” Then the Chancellor changes his tone, suddenly pleading, “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

But the Seeker is stubborn, and for once Solas is grateful for that.

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” she insists.

Chancellor Roderick throws his hands up in disbelief. “How? You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.”

Once again, the Seeker does not heed him. “We must get to the temple. It’s the quickest route.”

“But not the safest,” Leliana says. “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.”

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It is too risky,” the Seeker argues.

“Listen to me,” Chancellor Roderick pleads the Seeker. “Abandon this now before more lives are lost!”

Solas shakes his head; their lives are forfeit if they give up. They only have a chance if they fight.

Apparently, Luta agrees. And she is out of patience.

“Venhedis!” She shouts as she stomps to the front, planting herself between the Chancellor and the Seeker. The word sounds familiar to Solas, but he can’t quite place it. “Now I know how Hawke felt, dealing with incompetent fools day in and day out! Is one of you going to turn into a statue next? Is that what’s going to happen!?”

“I bet it’ll be the Chancellor,” Varric says.

Chancellor Roderick’s glare flickers between Varric and Luta. “What are you—”

But Luta won’t hear any more from him.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” she says. “If Chancellor Rogerie or Rodick or whatever plans on standing here and doing nothing, he can leave.”

The Chancellor omits a strange squeaking sound.

Luta ignores him and continues, “We’re taking the mountain path because a squad was lost up there and because Cassandra wants to do the opposite.”

“That is no reason to do anything!” The Seeker yells.

Varric shushes her. “Her hand, her choice, Seeker.”

“I agree. Luta should be the one to choose, regardless of her reasoning,” Leliana says. “Or lack thereof.”

“Great! Once we reach the temple, I’ll close the breach somehow and we can all go our separate ways. The end. Everyone’s happy, and _I_ don’t have to deal with the Chantry or whatever this shit is.”

The Seeker shakes her head. “There is still the matter of your trial—”

“You’d have to catch me first, and I assure you that I’m very, _very_ experienced at running.”

Without waiting for another response, Luta starts for the other end of the bridge. Varric follows at once and, after sharing a look with Leliana, the Seeker trails behind them.

Taking one last glance at the hatred marring Chancellor Roderick’s face, Solas shakes his head and follows Luta as well.

* * *

 

“Did you truly come here to rescue Varric?”

Solas eavesdrops but keeps his gaze fixed on the snow, pretending to concentrate on following the Seeker’s footprints. The wind is on his side. It does nothing to drown out the Seeker’s words or Luta’s responses.

“Why else would I be here?” Luta pauses to help Varric over a high ledge. “Your Conclave holds no interest for me.”

The Seeker eyes the crumpled fabric where Luta clutches Varric’s sleeve in a white-knuckled grip. A few feet away, Solas senses her doubts.

“The Divine wished to speak to Hawke,” says the Seeker. “You did not seek to rid him of the threat?”

Luta laughs. It’s not a kind sound. “I would not count the Chantry as a threat to Hawke. He’s a bit practiced at ignoring authority. Besides, my pati is with him, and I doubt there is anyone in Thedas better than him at living on the run.”

Solas does not know who this “pati” is, but the Seeker clearly recognizes the word. She grunts in acknowledgement and, slightly hesitant, turns away from Luta and Varric. Behind her back, the two rogues share a shaky smile.

Well, if the Seeker is finished with her interrogation, then perhaps it is Solas’ turn to ask questions.

“Has the mark hurt less since you awoke?”

Luta startles and nearly trips over a stone. Varric sniggers, and she sends both him and Solas a nasty look before regaining her balance. “Not that it’s any of your business,” Luta snaps, “but I feel perfectly fine.”

“I only wish to help.”

“I don’t need your—”

“Doughnut, give Chuckles a chance. If anyone can help with this Fade shit, it’s him.”

Solas crinkles his nose at the words, “Fade shit,” and Luta catches the look on his face. Her lips quirk up on one side for a second.

“Fine,” she says. “Ask me your questions, Ser Chuckles.”

With a roll of his eyes, Solas does exactly that.

* * *

 

Her answers lead him nowhere. Without her memories of the explosion, she cannot provide the details Solas needs to find Corypheus. And the details he needs in order to learn how a human mortal managed to use his foci.

(weak meandering things that could barely change the world couldn’t switch the ocean tides or light the sky with their names or drown a thousand people under vengeful flames, how _how_ did a shemlin…?)

At least she provides answers to his questions regarding her. Of course, all of these answers are obvious lies.

“I’m from the Deep Roads. Darkspawn leave me alone because I was blessed by the Hero Brosca.”

“I was Queen Anora’s lover, but she dumped me for some lieutenant. Left me heartbroken!”

“My hair turned white after I drank tea with a ghost. Boring tea party. Everything was terribly dusty, too.”

“You caught me! The real reason I came here was to steal the Divine’s hat. Varric dared me.”

“I’m best friends with Flemeth.” Solas nearly gets whiplash, his head turns so fast. “We’re both fond of pottery. Makes for an excellent ice breaker.”

Eventually, Solas gives up on asking. That is naturally when Luta decides to turn the tables.

“Can I ask you something?” She is hesitant. It is a stark contrast from her usual nonchalant tone.

On the other hand, Solas is pleased. A curious nature would mean the two of them have common ground after all. “Ask away.”

Luta clears her throat. “Did...did you notice the mark changing anything about me?”

“...This magic is too powerful for containment. I doubt any part of you was immune to its influence.”

“But could it interfere with...something also powerful?”

What she wants to know is clear. It is also clear that she does not want him to know. Time to take a chance. “This is about the lyrium?”

Luta’s next breath is shaky, barely clouding in the winter air before vanishing forever. “Yes.”

“What has changed about it?”

“It—I could—” Luta stops. “No, forget it. I can make do for now.”

Before Solas can protest, she marches to Varric’s side, huddling into the warmth of her bulky coat.

He will have to keep a closer eye on her. Despite her wishes, Solas is her best chance at survival. And he bears enough lost souls on his shoulders as it is.

* * *

 

By the time they reach the Temple, having saved the missing soldiers and closed another rift, the four of them are exhausted. The feeling is as alien as ever.

“Carry me the rest of the way, Doughnut,” Varric whines as he pulls on Luta’s coat.

“No! Ask your girlfriend to carry you.”

The Seeker whirls around. Her face screams of danger. “Excuse me.”

“Well, you’re the one that kidnapped him! That makes him _your_ responsibility.”

“Wha—That’s absurd! _You_ are the one who came to rescue him. He’s yours to deal with now! A-and I am _not_ his girlfriend!”

Varric sighs, “It’s so nice to feel this well-loved.”

Solas massages his temple. It does not alleviate the ache now pounding in his skull.

“Hey, Chuckles, would you—”

“No.”

“Hmph.”

* * *

 

Later, listening to the last echoes of Corypheus’ voice fade away, Solas carefully averts his gaze from Luta and the Seeker. He knows that he will regret witnessing the looks on their faces.

“I recognize that accent,” Luta croaks out. Simultaneously, the Seeker whispers, “Divine Justinia...”

And Solas decides that hearing them is just as bad as seeing them. Enough is enough.

“It is time!” he shouts. “However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side!”

Both Luta and the Seeker snap out of their reveries. Luta draws her daggers, and the Seeker raises her sword.

“That means demons! Stand ready!”

Excellent. A fight will rip the guilt from Solas’ mind, even if he is battling poor corrupted spirits.

And what a fight do they get. Luta tears open the rift with her mark, and the first demon to come tumbling through is one of pride.

An eerie laugh drowns out the alarmed shouting as the demon conjures a whip of lightning and snaps it at a cluster of soldiers. Two collapse to the ground, the other three dive behind cover.

“Scatter!” Luta shouts. “Don’t let it hit all of us at once.”

They listen—even Solas—but it does little to aid the battle. The pride demon is fast for such a bulky stature, and its armor renders all moves against it pointless.

“We must lower its guard!” The Seeker growls as she twists to the right, her leg narrowly avoiding the demon’s giant foot.

Lucky for them all, Solas is here and still knowledgeable in his magic. “Disrupt the rift,” he tells Luta, “and we may weaken the demon!”

She frowns but accepts his advice. Throwing a smoky flask to the ground, Luta disappears from sight. Solas returns his attention to the battle—just in time to dodge a swipe from a shade. More creatures crawling through the rift. Solas curses. At this rate, they will never—

The shades stop and sway, the pride demon falls to its knees. Luta tears her hand away from the rift and sprints to the pride demon. Just as she ducks behind it and raises her daggers to strike, the Seeker draws in from the front with her sword. They strike at once, and the demon howls in pain.

It springs up, now injured but angrier, and the process begins again.

And again.

And again.

When the demon sways to its knees one final time, an archer and two warriors lie dead. The remaining Inquisition soldiers are grim-faced but determined. The Seeker’s arm is all but useless, hanging limp under her severely battered shield. Broken, probably, from the sheer force of the demon’s fist. Several strides away from her, Varric tries to aim Bianca with only one eye open. The other is swollen shut. And Luta…

Luta is in the worst condition, of those not dead. Her shoulder bears deep gashes, and burns stretch across her forearm from the demon’s lightning. Blood drips from her brow in a steady flow, a dangerous sign of head injury that concerns Solas, but Luta ignores it. It is her stomach she clutches instead. And from the blood slipping past her fingers, the wound there is no less severe. She needs healing. But first the Breach must be sealed.

The Seeker sees this too. She rips her sword from another shade and shouts, “Do it! Now!”

So Luta does.

Solas has to avert his eyes from the rift, the bright green light nearly blinding in its intensity. When he looks again, the rift is gone. Luta sways on her feet and—

—collapses into Cassandra’s arms.

“Shit!” Varric stumbles over to them while the soldiers start to cheer. “Is she alright!?”

“She is alive,” says the Seeker. Then, looking to Solas, “Will you stay with the Inquisition? Nobody else even remotely understands the Breach.”

Nothing in this world could keep him away. Not now. To the Seeker, he shows reluctance. “I will, so long as I am not the one to be dragged off in chains.”

“No,” Cassandra sighs. “The Inquisition will not forget what you have done here, Solas.”

(everything? he has done _everything_ to this world, but they will never know, will never see it coming, will never understand that this is wrong and _they_ are wrong)

Solas smiles. “Then I shall do my best.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Contains spoilers for future chapters*
> 
> Featured pairings:  
> m!Hawke/Fenris, f!Inquisitor/Solas, Isabela/Merrill, Aveline/Donnic, Anders/Nathaniel, Sera/f!Adaar/Dagna, Dorian/Iron Bull, Cassandra/Michel de Chevin, Varric/Bianca, Josephine/Blackwall, Cullen/f!Trevelyan, Scout Harding/Krem, m!Lavellan/m!Cadash, Leliana/f!Brosca, Alistair/f!Surana, Zevran/m!Cousland, Morrigan/m!Amell, one-sided f!Inquisitor/Cassandra, past Danarius/Fenris (I consider this, as well as any 'dubcon', actually non-consensual because if consent is dubious then it's not consent), past f!Inquisitor/Sera


End file.
